Welcome to Gaia! ::

please ignore the multitude of scars on my wrists and arms. That was in the past, I hope.

I don’t know everything, but apparently my birth was crazy. My bio dad was this horrible mythical thing who majorly enthralled my mom who was a human. They had this courtship, but as soon as he found out she was pregnant, he disappeared (literally.) She wasn’t the most stable to begin with and had had past problems with depression, so the loss of this guy she thought she was going to have a future with hit her hard. Didn’t help that BD (bio dad) had some sort of mystical attraction drug, so mom was technically going through withdrawal while pregnant. Anyways, she became estranged from practically everyone, I was told that people were looking for her, but hey that’s their word. So she was out on her own and hating life, definitely not taking care of herself (or me, by extension), and so she grew weaker and weaker. Unsurprisingly, a little over halfway through the third trimester, she died. But that’s where things get tricky. Death had her hourglass, which had run out of sand, yet mine still had quite a bit. To reap someone early would be the same as killing them, which Death cannot and will not do. There wasn’t really anyone else around who would come to my rescue, so he had to do it himself (also kind of against the rules). He brought my mom back to his realm outside of time and helped her have me (no word on whether cesarean or natural, and I kinda don’t want to know). Once I was born, we were both taken back to the living world and she was reaped and I survived. Death was even nice enough to call emergency services (technically he dialed the number but left the receiver off of the hook so they could hear me crying, but it still worked.) They showed up, took mom back to the morgue for autopsy and put me in the hospital. In time, my grandparents were called (who conveniently ran a funeral home that had been in the family for generations) and they buried their daughter and raised their grandson. So, I guess things worked out for a while.

So I grew up like most kids, except, you know, my grandparents and I lived above the funeral home they operated. It didn’t bother me, but I guess one would consider playing in coffins (empty ones, no worries), helping dress corpses, “assisting” with embalming (I handed a few tools and watched for leakage), and helping at funerals was a strange upbringing. But it was while helping with funerals that my grandparents noticed my major unusual ability: even as a little kid, I was really good at comforting people, but then I would end up being really sad afterwards. They recommended I avoid working directly with people, but I couldn’t help it: if I saw someone was sad, I had to step in and make them feel better. It was manageable until I was eleven. That year, around Christmas, my grandfather died of lung cancer caused from frequent exposure to formaldehyde (seriously people, it’s a carcinogen). I was definitely sad, he was practically my father, but it was even worse on my grandmother. Of course my grandfather had made arrangements for his funeral long before he died, and he had even made arrangements for my grandmother, but it was still hard. The staff, Grandma, and I carried out the funerary preparations and Grandma and I were even the ones to clean him up and dress him. We both knew he would want us to be at peace with the corpse and be a part of the process, so we couldn’t let him down. For almost a week after the funeral, I couldn’t really pull myself together enough to focus on how others were doing, but once I could, I saw how much it was destroying my grandmother. Me being me, I would always comfort her, my words provided a little effect, but it was mainly my ability which helped. That’s what lead me down a path I never should have trod: helping her was leading me deeper and deeper into depression, but every time I saw her smile, I knew I was doing the right thing.

That’s when the cutting began. It started when I accidentally nicked my finger when cutting up an apple; it was such a small sensation, yet it was one of the few sensations I had felt in a long while. I began trying different sorts of knives to see which one would work best; it was only small cuts that would heal in a day or two, but it was still a step in the wrong direction. But that was only temporary. Two years later, my grandmother had a heart attack while I was at school. I…I was the first one to find her, and rigor mortis had already begun to set in. Everyone reassured me that it wasn’t my fault: heart attacks were fast, and she probably would have still died even if I had been there. But I didn’t believe them, I guess the gnawing feeling of guilt lead me to believe I could have saved her, had I been there. I owed it to her to see that her funeral was carried out according to the directive, but the night after, while I was staying at a friend’s house, I enacted the plan for my demise. I had my favorite knife with me, and I headed into the backyard so that I wouldn’t disturb anyone. I hadn’t even gotten a full inch for the cut when my friend’s little sister came out and asked me what I was doing. As I was fumbling for an answer, she added “the skinny man told me to ask you. He was worried about you.” That was mega creepy, and I made her promise not to say anything about what had happened. I got lucky and the rest of the family never noticed. After that I bounced from foster to foster, most people finding me too morbid and depressing to keep around. I took several more attempts at my life, but somehow there was always something that stopped me. It was like I had a guardian angel or something who was protecting me from even myself.

Partway through my senior year of high school, I turned eighteen which made me an adult, and so I was finally able to claim the funeral home, though there weren't many jobs I could do given I didn't even have a high school diploma yet. The house felt empty now, but at least I still had fond memories of the place and I knew I wouldn't be kicked out. Switching schools all of the time was rough, but I still managed to graduate on time. My grandparents had left me a bit of an inheritance, but it would just barely be enough to cover all of the schooling I needed, and I didn't want to come out of school flat broke. So I picked up whatever job I could while I was in school, afterwards I planned to leave home once I graduated and find small jobs in other funeral homes, just so I could see how other people did things. However, that is definitely not what happened. Immediately after graduation, this really tall skeleton in black robes sort of just showed up and approached me. He greeted me by name and congratulated me on graduating. I of course thanked him and then stated the obvious: "you're a skeleton..." to which he replied that yes, he sort of was, but more importantly he was the anthropomorphic personification of death. He told me not to worry, he wasn't here to reap me, rather he wanted to take me back to his home and teach me the trade of being Death. After a lot of back and forth, he basically swung me over to his side by saying we were kind of family, he had been protecting me all this time, and that he would pay my tuition for college (got to be practical sometimes, you know.) So, I went back to the home, told everyone I had already gotten a job and that I would need to head out in the morning. It was sad parting, but I was also excited to see what all I could learn from Death. It's really hard to explain what all went on over there, but I spent the next ten years living with Death (who is sort of my father but not genetically) and going to school part-time, eventually getting my associates in funerary science and a bachelor's in biology. After that time, I was an officially licensed mortician and I knew how to be Death...which is a very intimidating prospect. I worked as an embalmer at home, as the man who had been running the place in my absence was planning on retiring in a few years anyway, may as well let him finish up his tenure. I was...ok during this period, but of course I was always taking sorrow so I was constantly in a dark mood. Smaller cuts could work as a temporary release, but still I ended up visiting my father whenever things got to be too much. Still, there were times I should have gone to the hospital, but I couldn't afford to tarnish the name of the funeral home, so one of my employees would end up stitching me up and they would make some excuse about me being sick and needing a couple days rest. Guess that wasn't entirely untrue.

After about five years, it was just too much so I went for a method that they probably couldn't save me from: ingesting massive quantities of formaldehyde. This time I was actually taken to the hospital where they managed to save me (darn) and kept me under constant surveillance for what felt like forever. Dad took me back to his place for about a year with the hopes that somewhere more peaceful (and frankly with no one to use my power on) would help me heal or whatever. It was pretty relaxing, I'll admit, but I soon became a bit homesick, or rather I came to miss the world of the living. So for the next handful of years I bounced back and forth between living and dead just sort of trying to find myself. Even though the funerary industry was my life, I knew if I actually wanted to survive, I'd have to move away from the profession. It was one hell of a decision to make, but it was really my only option. Looking at my options for careers, the only one I saw that I was really interested in was coroner. Conveniently, I already had the biology degree that I needed, next up was four years of medical training. Oh hey wait, one quick aside: one day I was out working with Dad when we came across this teen named Solomon Romero who was in one hell of a spot: he was in this fight with some gang people, and his hourglass was saying this was a moment he might die. But on the other hand, there were different sand levels, meaning it wouldn't really ruin things if he survived. So I may have used my scythe to deflect the bullets that were coming for him, then disarmed them. I was kind of hoping the cops would be called and that would be the end of that, but I never found out as I had to get moving, but not before telling the kid my name, you know, in case that ever became relevant. I promise, that aside becomes more important later.

Anyways, I breezed through the medical part. Go fig a lifetime in a funeral home helped with biology. I graduated about seven years ago now. Did two years of apprenticeship even though it was definitely not required by most states' laws. By this point I was in the world of the living almost all of the time and I had even reconnected with Solomon, who was now a young adult and slightly more mellow. He seemed to have respect for me for saving him, and that was enough of a premise for him to be willing to become friends with me despite the age difference. He lived in this town called Soleil, but I was only a couple hours from there, so it wasn't hard for us to meet up and hang out. The first few years I worked on my own were pretty pleasant. Yeah I would take sorrow when someone came in to confirm the identity of a body, but that didn't happen all of the time, so I was more stable than I had been in ages. However, near the end of my fourth year, I heard in the news that my family's funeral home had burned to the ground, killing the director and the employee who operated the retort. Apparently a pacemaker had managed to make its way into the retort, which caused a mini explosion, which caused the retort to malfunction. In the process of trying to make it serviceable again, sparks shot out, and, well, with all of those chemicals the place went up in an instant. I couldn't help but feel it should have been me who died there: I was the one who was supposed to be running the place. Not only that, I had known both of the victims and their families, and I couldn't imagine the sorrow they were going through now. Finally, that...that was my childhood home that went up in flames. It was where almost every single pleasant memory I had ever had came from, it was my tangible link to the loving couple who had raised their grandson like he was their own son. It was...basically my entire life. I of course attended the funerals, and while everyone seemed to be glad I was there, I could feel a hatred. In reality, it probably didn't exist, but my own guilt made me believe they resented me knowing I should have been the one who died. It was my duty to take as much sorrow from them as I possibly could. You could say I kind of overdosed on depression. As soon as the funerals were over, I went back to my apartment, but it felt like a strange place. I hid away from anyone who knew me, locked myself alone in the dark, just so I didn't have to see the monster who killed two innocent people. I...I don't remember how it happened, but I found myself in the bathroom of my apartment with a knife in my hand, and finally I knew what I had to do.

I don't remember anything for a few days after that, but Solomon later told me he had been planning on visiting me as he was a bit worried. All of a sudden Death showed up in his car and told him: "Your friend Emelius is dying. He is in his apartment, and you have about ten minutes before he is too far gone. Please hurry." Then Death disappeared and Solomon practically flew to my apartment where he found me nearly unconscious and decidedly incoherent. Once more there was the whole hospital rigamarole, and Death even visited me a few times (even brought me miso soup direct from Japan once whee ) and of course Solomon visited often. Given my history, I was kept a bit longer, but when I was finally let out, I didn't end up going to live with Dad or back to my apartment, instead Solomon invited me to move out to Soleil, even said I could live with him for a while. I knew it was partially a measure to keep an eye on me, but the thought was sweet and maybe going somewhere new and not always being alone would be good for me. Not really knowing what else to do, I moved in with him and eventually got a job as the coroner for Soleil. That's still the situation I'm in, so no more to update.